Fifteen pages. That's what I accomplished today. I am fretting about the pacing, but then I always am. I hate editing.
When my fairy god mother finally finds me (She's the woman in the pumpkin carriage who just passed your house for the third time--please go out and tell her to go left at the stop light--no, no, the other left) I'm only going to ask for one thing. We're way past handsome princes, balls and glass slippers. These days it's a middle aged husband, the grocery store and tennis shoes. Now I'll just settle for being able to write a perfect copy the first time. Oh and an agent. And world peace of course.